


Men

by epeolatry



Series: Just Like Always [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, D/s relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gags, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs, Reunion Sex, Sexual Dysfunction, Shell Shock, Vomiting, dogtag romance, new relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two damaged men are reunited in Europe during World War Two. For the longest time they'll think they've already seen the worst horrors the world has to offer, but from the very start they know that each is the best of the other's life.</p><p>Or; Steve & Bucky's lost war time chronicles (set during Captain America: The Winter Soldier)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A hero don’t get soft / A hero don’t retreat / He’s gonna get his way / ‘Cause he won’t accept defeat / Guys like me and you / We’re heroes through and through / Semper Fi / Do or Die_

_\- Hometown Hero's Ticker Tape Parade, Dogfight_

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky had thought a lot about what he’d do when – if – he saw Steve again. He’d thought about it all through the eight weeks of basic training at Camp McCoy, weeks spent sweating buckets and learning curse words that even the dock workers back home in Brooklyn hadn’t come up with. He’d thought about it when the 107th had deployed to Italy, where he couldn’t read a single street sign and was surprised by how quickly he got used to seeing people broken down into their bloody component parts. He’d spent hours on end thinking about it when he’d been captured, first in the shared subterranean cage he’d been thrown into along with the rest of his battalion, and then later when he’d been strapped down to Zola’s table and pumped full of god knows what that had left him retching and shivering uncontrollably for days.

 

When Steve had come for him Bucky hadn’t recognised him at first. He never told anyone that, not even Steve. It felt like a betrayal somehow, not being able to recognise his best friend’s voice and smell and eyes and soul just because he’d grown a few inches and finally put on some muscle. By the time he’d put two and two together there was no time for the heartfelt reunion he’d been imagining all those months, not amid the chatter of gunfire and the roar of the Panzer that Dum Dum had requisitioned.

 

_I thought you were smaller…_

 

Nor was there a lot of time during the long march through enemy territory back to base as Steve was understandably too busy trying to coordinate the quiet escape of four hundred injured men through hostile terrain. They had no ammunition nor supplies, little transport, and plenty of wounded to worry about so Bucky didn’t like to interrupt Steve when he clearly had a lot on his plate. Steve had already made it clear enough that the single reason behind his dumbass kamikaze mission had been to save Bucky – who might as well have already been dead for all Steve had known - and the guys had already started ribbing him for it. Morita in particular had been making sure to salute him as “Mrs Rogers” every chance he got.

 

Of course the two old friends snatched a few minutes here and there for Steve to give Bucky a whirlwind explanation of Erskine, Camp Lehigh, Agent Carter, Howard Stark, and “Captain America”, but Bucky was still a little dazed, a little jumpy, and a lot nauseous, and listening to Steve talk about all these fancy new friends and places while having to actually look up at the blond for the first time in his life was overwhelming.

 

_Did it hurt..?_

 

So Bucky let the new and physically improved Steve take charge of the escape and focussed instead on making sure he kept his bandages as clean as possible and only threw up the empty contents of his roiling stomach in the woods where no one could see him. They’d already spent a lifetime together and Steve had just proven that nothing could keep them apart for long, so Bucky figured waiting a few more days for a proper reunion couldn’t hurt any.

 

_Is it permanent..?_

 

It wasn’t until they were back at base and Colonel Philips had debriefed (read: chewed out) Steve for a good two hours while Bucky submitted to a full medical examination that they had any time to spend alone. Bucky made his way through the camp tugging at the bandages the medic had wrapped too tightly around the crooks of both his elbows where countless needles had been shoved into him by Zola and his lackeys. When he stepped into Steve’s personal tent it seemed as if his feet had carried him there subconsciously, and for a moment Bucky just stood in the doorway, awkward and surprised. All of a sudden he couldn’t remember a single one of those reunion scenarios he’d spent so many months thinking about.

 

Steve had been shucking off his ruined leather jacket when Bucky entered, and the blond also looked surprised and a little awkward as the silence stretched on between them, his huge new body at odds with the way he still ducked his head and shuffled his feet and tried to look up at Bucky through his eyelashes, except he was looking down now and neither of them were quite sure how to address that.

 

“Hey,” said Bucky at last, cracking a ghost of a grin, “I guess that growth spurt finally came, huh?”

 

And just like that they were hugging, Bucky caught up in Steve’s immense arms and almost lifted off his feet. They used to do that differently too, Bucky’s arms around Steve’s skinny waist and Steve’s wrapped around Bucky’s neck, but now their positions were reversed, Steve cradling Bucky to his broad chest and Bucky digging his fingers into the belt loops of Steve’s combat fatigues.

 

Bucky didn't cry, had promised himself he wouldn't cry, but his eyes were wet and his voice was choked as he grunted, "Goddamn I missed you," into the rough material of Steve's bizarre-looking uniform. Steve pressed a kiss to the crown of Bucky's head, probably the first time he'd ever done so, and Bucky didn't-cry even harder.

 

"Missed you too," replied Steve steadily, holding Bucky so tightly that it was clear he wasn't used to the newfound strength of his arms; Bucky felt his breath constricting and his ribs bruising in the fierce embrace, but it just made him cling all the harder to the knowledge that no matter how crazy, how improbable it seemed, this was _real_.

 

During his months spent strapped to Zola's table in that dark little room Bucky had seen and felt and heard a lot of things, and even now he still had trouble parsing out memories from imagination. He'd dreamed of Steve rescuing him a hundred times over, skinny little Steve Rogers from Brooklyn who had always managed to smile even with a split lip and who'd never held a gun in his life. When Captain America had shown up it was almost _too_ ridiculous to have been a hallucination; scrawny Stevie Rogers all of a sudden topping six foot two and weighing in at more than two hundred pounds, wielding a Browning heavy machine gun like it weighed nothing at all. Even Bucky's wildest hallucinations hadn't stretched that far.

 

Bucky's nose bumped something cold and solid against Steve's chest and he found himself gripping the other man's dogtags, his voice a little hysterical in pitch as he read out, "Captain Rogers, Steven G - oh-dash-four six-two-three-six-two tango-four-two four-three-oh – S.S.R. - blood type AB Positive – C for Catholic... Boy, you really did it. You said you'd do anything to get in the army and you fuckin' did. I musta forgot how stubborn you could be…”

 

Steve loosened his grip and looked down, smiling, and gently took Bucky's own tags in those newly huge hands of his to read aloud, "Sergeant Barnes, James B – one-three-two-double five- seven-four-seven tango-four-two four-three-alpha - 107th Infantry Battalion – blood type O Negative – and No for religious preference? Sister Mary Benedicta will be weeping in the nave!”

 

Bucky sniggered and scrubbed an impatient hand over the wetness still on his cheeks, "How'd you get to be a captain anyhow? You just leapfrog over us enlisted men? Not very _'all men are created equal'_ of you."

 

Steve rolled his eyes good naturedly, "It's just a nickname, I never even finished basic training. In fact I'm pretty sure I'm still a civilian, but people round here just seem more inclined to take orders when you're a foot taller and three feet broader than them and wearing star spangled tights... Don't ask me why."

 

"Well I ain't gonna take orders from no civilian," said Bucky with petulant humour, "I seen some crazy things since we shipped out but I never seen a sergeant of the US Army take orders from a ninety pound asthmatic who lost a fight with a test tube."

 

Steve chuckled, "You got it, Sergeant Barnes. Captain America might be _the star spangled man with a plan_ , but Steve Rogers is still a scrappy little kid from Brooklyn who’s in way over his head. I still need you Buck, I always will."

 

Something inside Bucky went cold at that, something small and traitorous and quiet that whispered how the old Steve Rogers would never have lied to Bucky's face like that, pretending like he still needed him when strength and resolve and righteousness clearly sat so well on his newly-broad shoulders, but Bucky quashed it.

 

"I know Steve. Who else is gonna put up with you running head first into trouble every damn day? Single-handedly storming a fuckin' HYDRA base, ya big mook, coulda got y'self killed!"

 

Steve nodded penitently, the apples of his cheeks a little pink (though nothing like the blotchy flush that used to run from his thin chest all the way up to the tips of his ears, Bucky recalled dimly) before saying quietly to the floor, "I need you to keep me in line, Bucky."

 

Bucky realised that he knew that look. It jarred a little with his memories of it but there was no doubt it was the same look; downcast eyes, rosy cheeks, hands clasped worriedly together, feet shuffling in the dirt... Bucky reached up a cautious hand, worried that maybe he was reading this wrong, maybe this familiar look from an unfamiliar body meant something different entirely, but when he cupped Steve's cheek and stroked a gentle thumb over his lower lip the newly-taller man's eyes slid shut as he exhaled on a quiet little hum and Bucky knew that that look still meant the same thing between them

 

"You need me to take care of you right now?" Bucky asked quietly, "You can say yes or no, either way I'll still be here to keep you in line whenever you need me to."

 

"Please," said Steve, eyes still closed and voice a little strained, “It’s been… god, just too much. I need you.”

 

"Okay," Bucky nodded, "Kneel down for me."

 

Steve did so, his expression instantly soft and open as he dropped his gaze to the ground at Bucky's feet. They'd done this so many times before, Bucky's warm control and Steve's calm relief, it was almost muscle memory by now. Neither of them had a name for it, though they both knew bone deep that they needed it from one another.

 

Suddenly Bucky felt unsteady. With a lurch of memory he was thrown back into the fall of 1935, when for once _he_ had come down with a fever and been laid up in bed for near two weeks. Steve had nursed him through the sweats and shakes despite Bucky's increasingly incoherent demands that he leave him alone lest the smaller boy come down with it as well. At the end of a month Bucky had come through, a few pounds lighter, a few shades paler, but _alive_ thanks to Steve. He had felt helpless during those weeks, hating every second of feeling like an invalid, a burden. He thought he might even have accused Steve of planning it in his moments of delirium, deliberately infecting Bucky so that for once Steve could be the strong one, though neither of them had spoken of it after his recovery.

 

That same sick, helpless feeling came over him now as he looked down at the top of Steve's bowed head, that sensation of grasping for a power and control that ought to come naturally but that was somehow no longer there, sliding away between his fingers. If Steve was the one ostensibly giving up his autonomy in this moment then why did Bucky suddenly feel so weak? His throat burned and he tasted vomit in his mouth but he managed to swallow it back down, thanks to those months of practice with Zola, months of constant nausea and helplessness and terror and-

 

"Steve..." he rasped, bile and fear sudden and hot on his tongue, "I can't, I..."

 

Steve's head jerked up, confusion clouding blue eyes, the same trusting eyes that Bucky had looked down into a hundred times before, and the tent around him started spinning. Steve made to stand but Bucky dropped to his knees before he could, slumping into Steve's chest and now he was very definitely crying, like he hadn't since he was a kid, not since his father had been killed, because that was what happened when you joined the army wasn't it? That was what _soldiers_ did, they got _killed_ , they _died_ , and now here was Steve, precious Steve, with his old, familiar eyes and his shiny new dogtags, and _Captain America_ was a crock of shit because soon enough it would just be another name on another grave in another military graveyard, just like _Captain Barnes_ had been and just like _Sergeant Barnes_ would be and-

 

_Please god, not Steve too, not my Stevie, not Steve!_

 

Bucky didn't know if he actually passed out or if he just worked himself into such a state of hysteria that it felt as if he was waking up, but it didn't really matter; when he was finally able to think straight again he found himself lying on Steve's cot, the sheets smelling familiar, like Steve's sweat and military laundry starch, with Steve hovering worriedly over him holding a canteen of water.

 

"You back with me?" Steve asked with a wan attempt at a smile, holding out the water to Bucky, “I was about to call a medic.”

 

"I ain't a coward," rasped Bucky defensively in a voice like sawdust.

 

"Nobody's saying you are," affirmed Steve gently.

 

"Well I ain't," Bucky gritted out.

 

"You've been through a lot Buck, we both have," said Steve soothingly, sitting down on the bunk and passing the flask to Bucky, "I shouldn't have asked you so soon. I'm sorry."

 

"C'mere," Bucky growled, grabbing Steve's wrist with surprising strength and tugging the larger man towards him. Another time, the force of Bucky's arm would have had Steve sprawling over the top of him, but as it was Steve hardly moved. Instinct was clearly harder to change than physiology however, because as soon as he realised what Bucky wanted Steve obediently crawled over to him and settled his huge body into the brunet’s lap, the canteen of water forgotten as Bucky pushed rough fingers into Steve's hair and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

 

After a few moments of tongue and teeth and stuttering hips Steve pulled away, not panting like he once would have been but still flushed and heavy-eyed as he whispered softly against his lover's open mouth, "Bucky, we don't have to, not if you're not up to it. We can just talk, or-"

 

"Shut up," snapped Bucky, lunging forward to bite down hard on Steve's lower lip and forestall any more talking. He let go when Steve started whimpering and set to unbuckling Steve's trousers, growling darkly as he did so, "I don't want to talk about my feelings Stevie, I ain't no dame. I want you, I want to fuck, but this damn tent ain't no place for it, your whorish moaning would have the guys in here in a second, so I'll settle for that sweet cock of yours in my mouth. You got any objection to that, soldier?"

 

Steve teetered on the edge of objecting but then Bucky managed to open his trousers fully and wrap a hand around him and his objections vanished; he'd not even touched himself in this new body yet, hadn't had the opportunity nor the inclination, but Bucky's rough hand sent sparks of pure pleasure flying down his spine and whether it was the separation or the serum, it had never ever felt so good between them.

 

"Bucky - fuck!"

 

"Lay down and shut up," ordered Bucky roughly, shoving Steve's shoulder in the direction he wanted him and yanking down the blond's trousers to his knees, "Don't make me gag you."

 

"Please," moaned Steve and Bucky looked up, a hint of tenderness flickering behind the brusque exterior for the first time since he'd grabbed Steve’s arm.

 

"You want that?" Bucky asked seriously, hovering over the other man and still with his hand wrapped tight around Steve's cock, "We gotta keep quiet Stevie, you know we do. D'you need some help with that?"

 

Steve nodded, his mouth dropping open in a sharp gasp as Bucky stroked him once roughly. "Okay."

 

Bucky cast around for something suitable to gag his lover with but the sparse tent offered only the cot and a locked foot locker. His uniform was torn and filthy and so was Steve's, and though Captain America's immune system could certainly handle a little bit of dirt, Bucky was still operating with the familiar fragilities of Steve Rogers in mind, who would likely manage to catch salmonella from a mouthful of muddy undershirt. In the end Bucky settled on his belt, sliding it out from his trousers and doubling it over twice.

 

"Open," he instructed, and Steve's mouth closed over soft leather, his groan of satisfaction muffled by the improvised gag.

 

"There," Bucky smiled wickedly, "That oughta keep you quiet. Now you bite down on that, lay still, and keep your hands to yourself or there'll be hell to pay, understood?" Steve whined thinly and nodded his assent. He was treated to one more devilish grin before Bucky disappeared from his line of sight and his world was whited out by the sensation of a hot mouth sliding down around his cock. They’d done this a hundred times before - back in Brooklyn it had been the cleanest and quietest way to get each other off - but it had never felt this intense. The serum seemed to have enhanced everything, just like Erskine had said, and Steve damn near bucked off the bed as Bucky lit up every nerve ending below his waist with blinding pleasure.

 

Bucky was clever with his mouth, had always loved using his tongue and lips on his lovers whether it was just a quickie with some dame or the deeper intimacy of being with Steve. He brought out all his old tricks now and Steve was so glad he'd asked for the gag, breathy whines and moans escaping around it but nothing too loud, his hands fisted so tightly in the bedding he thought he might tear it and his hips hitching shallowly into Bucky's wild, willing mouth.

 

Just when Steve was starting to frantically think of ways to warn Bucky that he was going to come without speaking nor moving, Bucky pulled off him. Steve huffed and wriggled in protest, making Bucky chuckle softly. "I thought I said you were to lay still. You been trying to fuck my mouth, you little queer. You might _look_ different now Stevie, but deep down I know you're the same, just the same needy little slut you always been. Ain't that right? You need me so bad, huh Stevie?"

 

Steve whined around the belt jammed between his teeth, his hips jerking up unconsciously, desperately seeking Bucky's touch.

 

"Say it," growled Bucky, roughly yanking the leather out of Steve's mouth, "Tell me how bad you need it, tell me you need me!"

 

"I-I need you Buck," gibbered Steve helplessly, his voice as low as he could keep it, "I need you so, so bad, please. I've always needed you, I need you, I need you."

 

Bucky surged up Steve's body and pulled him into a possessive kiss. Almost as soon as Steve's mouth fell open under his Bucky pulled away again, nipping sharply again at Steve's lower lip before hissing, "You're mine, you belong to me. Say it!"

 

"I'm yours, Buck," Steve whispered back, growing a little uncertain at Bucky's unusually domineering behaviour.

 

"Again!" Bucky snapped, slapping Steve’s thigh and making the blond gasp in surprise.

 

"Yours! I'm yours Bucky, I always have been!" "Mine," Bucky growled, grabbing one of Steve's big, grasping hands and laying it on his own chest, right over his heart, where Steve knew his initials were etched permanently into Bucky's skin, "Always mine Stevie, ain't nuthin' gonna change that. Now come for me."

 

Bucky wrapped his hand around Steve's cock and pumped him roughly, both of them panting hard and the sudden, hot friction was too much for Steve to bear in this newly enhanced, newly sensitised body. He came bare seconds later, spurting into Bucky's fist and only getting a little on his shirt, nothing that would be noticed in amongst all the dirt and sweat stains already covering the torn fabric.

 

At the very last second Bucky had sunk his mouth down over Steve's and his deep growl had masked Steve's quiet moan of orgasm. Once Steve was done they pulled apart, though Bucky kept stroking Steve slowly and wetly, purposefully over-stimulating his body and making the larger man whimper pitifully. Finally Bucky let go and pulled off Steve, stumbling just a little as he stood and stepped away from the cot.

 

"Hey," Steve crooned, feeling relaxed and satisfied after his first orgasm in weeks, "C'mere and I'll... oh."

 

He had reached out to palm Bucky's cock through his trousers and found the other man still soft. "It's not- " Bucky began heatedly- but he broke off, swiping a frustrated hand over his face and turning away to pace the far end of the tiny tent, barely an arm’s length from where Steve lay on the cot, "I mean, it wasn't- " He faltered again and dropped his face into his hands.

 

"Hey," said Steve quietly, "Hey, it's okay, it's fine. We're fine."

 

All of a sudden Steve felt far from fine. Bucky had never not gotten hard while they were fooling around before... Was it this new body? Steve thought he looked like a film star, tall and muscular just like he'd always wished he could be, but Bucky used to always say back in Brooklyn how he loved Steve's spare little body, loved that there was nothing extra to it, all he needed was there in one easy-to-handle package. At the time Steve had thought Bucky was just being kind about his pitiful physique but now... was Bucky no longer attracted to him? Steve couldn't bear the thought of losing Bucky like that, not after he'd just found him again.

 

"It ain't you," Bucky managed to choke out, scrubbing his hands over and over his stubbled face, "You... _shit_ , Stevie, lookit you! You're gorgeous. I just... I dunno why I can't... They gave me this stuff, while I was a POW, it made me pretty sick so maybe, maybe that's why... That's prob’ly why. I mean, you were perfect, you're _always_ perfect, and now, boy, you look like a goddamn sculpture! I swear Stevie, it ain't you, it's just... we'll try again tomorrow and it'll be fine, I promise, tomorrow I'll be able to- "

 

"Hey," Steve cut him off gently, holding open his arms. Bucky rambled whenever he got nervous or upset. He always ran his mouth when he was hot and when he was mad, but his words made sense. When he was real upset about something he started just talking without making any sense at all, working himself up into a blind hysteria. "C'mere," Steve coaxed, and tried not to look too surprised when Bucky in fact did, his head hung in shame and his steps heavy as he crossed the length of the tent and collapsed into Steve's outstretched arms.

 

"I'm sorry, Stevie," mumbled Bucky quietly into the blond's neck as he straddled Steve's naked lap, any sexual connotations of the situation leeched away by Bucky's sudden hopeless despair, "I'm such a damn fool, I'm so sorry."

 

Steve wasn't entirely sure what Bucky was so sorry about, but he raised one large hand to stroke through his friend's hair as he murmured back, "Shhh Buck, I gotcha, it's okay. Ain't no reason t'be sorry. I gotcha."

 

Steve soothed Bucky as best he could, mimicking the things that Bucky used to do for him when he had been feeling small and helpless. He placed one comforting hand on the back of Bucky's head and carded his fingers through the short back and sides that the army had shaved into him. Steve's other hand sat warmly in the small of Bucky's back, supporting him and holding him close. Steve didn't comment on the tears he felt seeping through his shirt, just kept up a steady commentary of endearments and assurances. Bucky rocked and huffed, trying not to sob but unable to hold it back. His hands clutched convulsively at Steve, sometimes curling around his hips, sometimes grabbing at the back of his neck, and sometimes making a fist around his dogtags, as if Bucky were desperate for something tangible to cling to.

 

Steve supposed he probably was. They hadn't really talked about what had gone on during Bucky's imprisonment but clearly Steve had underestimated the psychological impact on his friend. From what he'd gathered from the other POWs, Bucky had been selected from their shared cell and dragged off to a separate facility within the prison known as the ‘isolation ward’ from whence no one had ever returned. As for what had gone on in there only Bucky and those sick excuses for doctors knew, though Steve had some inkling of what it might have involved, judging by the medical instruments and the lab equipment he'd found Bucky surrounded by and the constellations of puncture marks on his inner elbows…

 

"I need you," Bucky whimpered into Steve's chest, sounding heart-breakingly childlike.

 

"I know," murmured Steve quietly, "I know you do Buck, and you got me. I'm right here, I ain't going nowhere, not ever again. See? I'm right here," Steve laid his hand over Bucky's chest where the tattoo was, squeezing gently, "Right here. Forever."

 

Bucky looked up at him, his face tear-stained and scared-looking, one hand still clutched tightly around Steve's dogtags. It gave Steve an idea.

 

"Here, gimme those," Steve said, gently prying Bucky's fingers loose then pulling the army-issue necklace off over his head. He unclipped the chain and removed one tag - the one intended to stay with the body of the soldier at all times - then gently undid Bucky's own chain and removed a single tag from that as well. Bucky looked up at him in confusion and Steve gave him an encouraging smile as he switched the tags and reattached them, one of Bucky's on Steve's chain and one of Steve's on Bucky's.

 

"See? I'm yours, always, and I'll always be with you. Even in the showers."

 

Bucky managed a small smile at that, allowing Steve to loop the improved dogtags back around his neck.

 

"S'against regulations," Bucky said quietly, holding up his two new tags side by side to read them; Steve and James, Rogers and Barnes.

 

Steve put on his best Captain American voice and said with mock sternness, "Regulations be damned soldier, this is a direct order from your commanding officer.”

 

Bucky smiled again with an echo of his old, mischievous grin, "Yessir."

 

Steve pulled him into a tight hug, murmuring, "I still need you Buck, I'll always need you."

 

"You got me, Stevie," Bucky affirmed, hugging him back just as fiercely, "Just like always."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_There’s part of me that longs to say / I’m happy as we are / I’ll stay his secret, on the side / So all I’ll get I’ve already had / Not too bad / To hell with pride..._

_\- "Maybe", From Here to Eternity_

 

* * *

 

 

“You holding up okay?” Steve asked Bucky quietly, the pair of them seated apart from the rest of the men in the rowdy London pub.

 

“Hmm?” Bucky’s head jerked up from where he’d been staring unseeingly down into his beer, “Oh, uh yeah, fine. I’m doin’ fine Steve, why d’ya ask?”

 

Steve shrugged, “Just wanted to check up on you. The medics gave you a clean bill of health but that don’t mean… God knows what they did to you in that place, y’know?”

 

It was a clumsy way to lead into the question that he really wanted to ask and Steve knew it, but he’d been skirting around the issue of Bucky’s imprisonment for days now and his less direct offers to talk if Bucky needed to hadn’t yielded anything yet.

 

Bucky just shrugged again, keeping his eyes fixed on the drink in front of him, “I know what you’re trying to do Steve but honest to god, it ain’t a big deal. I was out cold for most of it, I don’t really remember anything except being a little sick afterwards. Aside from that they didn’t hurt me at all, you saw the medical report, barely a bruise on me. I got off a helluva lot easier than some of the other guys did so quit ya worryin’.”

 

It was much the same answer that all of Steve’s attempts to get Bucky to open up about his ordeal had engendered. Certainly, Bucky was in surprisingly good shape physically, if a little thinner than he once had been and bearing a number of concerning new scars. But Steve knew that Bucky had been more than a _little_ sick - he’d been retching for days after the rescue operation – and the brunet certainly remembered more than he was letting on if his nightmares were any indication. However, Steve also knew his friend well enough to know that any further attempts to press the issue would be met with sullen silence. So he backed off, taking a sip of his own beer and saying quietly, “Okay Buck, just wanted to check in with you.”

 

“I’m fine Rogers,” Bucky tried to raise a smile, but it was dull and lifeless, “You ain’t gotta worry, that’s my job.”

 

Steve was saved from answering by Dum Dum’s raucous shout across the bar.

 

“Cap! Get over here! We got a question for you!”

 

Steve got to his feet and Bucky followed, both of them grabbing their beers and making their way through the crowd towards the ragged band of men assembled around a small table.

 

“So how many of ‘em did you do?” slurred Dum Dum with a knowing wink at Steve, leaning conspiratorially towards him over the sticky table stacked high with empty pint glasses.

 

True to his word Steve had opened a tab for his newly formed ‘Howling Commandoes’, but when what looked like the sixth or seventh round arrived he began to wonder if Captain America was entitled to ask for an advance on his wages. He felt somehow sure that Colonel Philips would fail to see the funny side of a bar bill filed under ‘miscellaneous expenses’.

 

“I, uh… what?” asked Steve, taking a seat beside Bucky while the rest of the men sniggered around him.

 

“The dancing girls,” Morita chipped in, as if it were obvious, “Captain America always had that big troupe of USO girls. How many of ‘em did you nail?”

 

Steve’s cheeks pinkened just a bit, little enough that only Bucky noticed. In the old days his whole body from the waist up would have been glowing hotly with embarrassment, but these days his disposition towards heavy blushing seemed not to be such a problem.

 

“Uh… none?”

 

“None?!” roared Dum Dum, slamming his glass down on the table and making the stacked empties teeter dangerously, “You were surrounded by gorgeous, flexible dames and you did _none_ of ‘em?”

 

“Well it would have been, uh, unprofessional,” stammered Steve, “We, y’know, travelled together, a lot of them had husbands or sweethearts, and I w-wouldn’t like to mix business with pleasure…”

 

Bucky smirked at that, subtly reaching up to play with his dog tags, the quiet jangle of the chain audible only to Steve’s enhanced ears and deepening the man’s blush.

 

The other soldiers were all staring in disbelief.

 

“None,” Morita muttered in shock.

 

“ _Aucun?_ ” asked Dernier disbelievingly, looking to Gabe for clarification.

 

The linguist shook his head sadly, “Pas une.”

 

“Cap,” Dum Dum asked sternly, “Tell me true now, are you one of them, y’know…”

 

Steve swallowed thickly, blood rushing loudly in his ears all of a sudden. _Are you a queer? An invert? A queen, a fairy, a fruit, a deviant, a pansy, a fag, a sodomite?_

_A homosexual?_

 

“Are you a… virgin?”

 

Bucky almost spat out his drink. Steve tried not to breathe a sigh of relief even as his cheeks heated.

 

“Y’know, one of them religious types that saves themselves for marriage?” Dum Dum frowned.

 

“You kiddin’?” laughed Morita, “Just look at him! Cap’s probably been beatin’ off the dames with a stick since before you were shaving! He sure as shit gets more tail’n you do Dugan, and he probably doesn’t have to pay for it!”

 

Bucky and Steve shared a private smile, the others too riled up with drink and laughter to see the heated look between the two old friends as anything more than the warmth stirred by old memories.

 

“Go on then,” challenged Dum Dum, “How many girls you been in, Rogers?”

 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Steve said firmly, noting Falsworth’s taciturn nod of agreement amidst the groans of the others, “I’m going to turn in, good night fellas. Don’t stay out too late, we break camp tomorrow at oh-six-hundred.”

 

A belligerent chorus of “Yes mama,” and “Aye aye Captain,” and rolled eyes followed his warning but Steve trusted the Commandoes would obey his directives.

 

He walked the quiet, blacked-out road back to their shared quarters, a tiny barracks barely big enough to squash in the bed rolls of the seven men. Steve unfurled his own furthest from the barely-working radiator, having found that he didn’t need the extra heat to keep warm since the serum, and settled in to wait.

 

Bucky didn’t show up for another hour or so, but Steve knew he would eventually, warm and grasping and smelling of whiskey and cigarettes.

 

“Virgin, my ass,” sniggered Bucky drunkenly, immediately laying down alongside Steve and beginning to nuzzle and kiss at his throat and paw at him over his combat fatigues, “Morita reckons you had dames crawlin’ all over you back in Brooklyn, wouldn’t believe me when I said I had to set up dates for ya.”

 

Steve gently pried Bucky’s hands away from him, “They couldn’t know any better Buck, they only ever seen me in this new body.”

 

“Well, much as I liked the old one, this new one’s got its advantages. Let me demonstrate…” Bucky tried to grab at Steve again but Steve held his hands fast.  
  
“Bucky, c’mon,” he said gently, “You’re drunk. If we get caught…”

 

Dum Dum’s innocent inquiry earlier had seriously shaken Steve, and the full extent of the repercussions should his relationship with Bucky become public knowledge suddenly scared him. He wondered if the law was any different here in London than it was stateside; somehow he doubted it.

 

“We won’t,” insisted Bucky, struggling a little and baring his teeth, unused to being the one restrained from what he wanted, “ _C’mon_ Stevie, ain’t nuthin’ suspicious about a sergeant visiting with his CO at the end of the day.”

 

“It is if you end up bare ass naked and spending the night in my bedroll,” said Steve seriously, “Look, I want this as much as you do, but we gotta be careful! If they caught on, if anyone even _suspected_ it… we could be court martialled, Buck. We could get dishonourable discharges, Captain America would be disgraced… We could be sent to jail, or a psych ward… There’s just too much at stake now to take the same risks we did when we were just kids.”

 

Bucky made an irritated noise and went back to mouthing at Steve’s throat, knowing how the sensation of teeth on sensitive skin usually made Steve’s resolve melt. Sure enough the scrape of his incisors made Steve let out a little groan and the blond could feel the blood starting to fill his cock, the hot, insistent recklessness of Bucky always going straight to his groin. But tonight he couldn’t let it, not if there was even the smallest chance of getting caught…

 

“I need this, Stevie, c’mon, you know I do,” Bucky murmured quietly against the flutter of Steve’s pulse.

 

“No, not tonight… I said quit it,” said Steve sternly, pushing Bucky away harder than he’d intended to, still not fully in control of the sudden strength in his thick arms, “Just stop it Bucky! This ain’t a game no more, we gotta be careful!”

 

Bucky sprawled where he had fallen on the floor with a sullen glare, but he didn’t say anything more, just huffed at Steve.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve tried, gently but firmly, “You know I wanna but it’s too dangerous, the others could be back any minute. Bucky… I _want_ to. You know I _want_ to, but we can’t, not tonight, not here. Tomorrow night maybe, once we’ve shipped out we can pitch camp anywhere we like and share a tent like normal… It’ll be better, I promise.”

 

Bucky’s eyes were dark, the room’s solitary, high window at his back leaving his face in shadow as he said softly, “Y’know, for a hero, sometimes you’re a damned coward Steve Rogers.”

 

The look of hurt and desolation in Steve’s eyes wasn’t enough to move Bucky to apology, irate and drunk as he was, so he simply turned his back on his friend and feigned sleep, until he heard the resigned rustle of bedroll that indicated Steve had done the same.

 

But sleep wasn’t easy to come by these days for Bucky, even with the help of the whiskey and a catalogue of sleepless nights that stretched back as far as Brooklyn. He lay awake, sometimes wracked with sweats and silent pains but usually just thinking, his brain whirring maddeningly, unceasingly. Bucky guessed that maybe some of the stuff HYDRA had pumped into him had been painkillers, opiates most likely as he'd been so out of it during his imprisonment that he didn't even know for sure how long he'd been in that little underground lab.

 

It would also explain all the needles and the sickness he'd felt afterwards. Back in Brooklyn, there'd been a couple of junkies squatting in Steve and Bucky's tenement building for a while and Bucky had occasionally seen them going through withdrawal when their supply was cut off; they would sweat and shiver feverishly, their scabby skin crawling, bright eyes rolling, mouths lolling open with a desperate chemical hunger while their translucent, sickly thin bodies curled tightly in on themselves like they wanted to disappear from a world that could make them hurt so badly. It was more or less how Bucky had felt in those confusing, hectic days after his rescue.

 

Not that he would rather have stayed strapped to that table. Not that he wouldn't go through it all again a thousand times over just to see Steve's angelic, worried face peering down at him. But Bucky had been changed in that dank, subterranean room. He didn't know how exactly but he knew it was so. Packs that had once been heavy and cumbersome he now carried with ease and he was pretty sure that the scores of infected, suppurating puncture marks dug into the crooks of his elbows shouldn’t have healed so fast and cleanly… He was also quicker to anger than he had been, even with Steve, and prone to long, sullen silences. The garrulous, grinning boy whose mouth had got him into twice as many fights as Steve's had (and had talked his way out of at least half of them) was now quiet and withdrawn more often than not, standoffish and tense like an animal in a cage.

 

Having Steve around helped and hindered in equal measure. Steve Rogers was the best of Bucky's life, always had been, and there was no question about that. The question was whether this new man calling himself Bucky's best friend even _was_ Steve Rogers… Most of the time he seemed to be, but every so often Bucky thought he caught a glimpse of someone new – maybe the fabled _Captain America_ \- looking out at him from those familiar baby blues and he felt a chill.

 

This new Steve didn't cough anymore, didn't stutter or blush or trip over his own feet or get fevers or sunstroke or chilblains, which was great. Real great. _Miracle_ -type great. Probably the greatest thing ever to happen in human history, and one of only two prayers of Bucky's that had ever been answered in full (the other had been to get into Margaret Brown's panties when he was sixteen).

 

Steve didn't need to be nursed through the night anymore, have sweat wiped from his forehead or soup spooned into cracked lips or mentholated balm spread over a quaking, heaving chest. He didn't need pricey medicines or whole weeks in bed anymore, didn't need anybody to help him. Didn't need...

 

_He doesn’t need Bucky_ , whispered the cruel, dark voice that had taken up lodgings in Bucky's mind ever since he was dragged into that sorry excuse for a laboratory and beaten until he could be strapped down to the table and used as Zola's personal lab rat.

 

Maybe so. Maybe Steve didn't need Bucky, but Bucky sure as helll still needed Steve. For the first time in his life Bucky felt the sharp tugs of heartbreak in that lonely, cold barracks room somewhere in a country he didn’t know and didn’t care to. Steve was dozing peacefully bare inches away from him yet the gulf between them suddenly felt like miles. It made Bucky’s breathing hitch in his chest just like Steve’s had done so many times before… If he was honest with himself, he'd rather have the dope sickness all over again.

 

**

 

Bucky was still surly the next morning, merely grunting his thanks when Steve handed him the steaming mug of coffee that Morita somehow managed to brew better than any diner in New York using just the army rationed instant granules.

 

Steve knew the previous evening he’d been right to push Bucky away, especially as Gabe and Dernier had come blundering into the barracks singing at the top of their lungs in French only a half hour later, but nevertheless he’d lain awake for hours, and now as well as feeling tired he felt guilty about Bucky’s downturned mouth and dull eyes.

 

Sure, Bucky had wanted to fool around last night, but it had been about more than just that; since the rescue Bucky had been drinking heavily whenever the opportunity presented itself and despite his still delicate stomach he seemed to be putting away higher and higher quantities of alcohol than Steve had ever seen him drink before. It was usually only when the camp’s entire liquor supply was drained dry that Bucky seemed able to open up to Steve. Not emotionally, not yet, but Bucky crawling into Steve’s lap last night had been a cry for help and Steve had known it but still he’d pushed his friend away. It was eating him up inside but as much as it irked him, he had bigger responsibilities to concentrate on.

 

Bucky would come around eventually, he always did.

 

“Everyone packed up?” Steve called, and received a chorus in the affirmative as the Commandoes all hoisted their packs onto their shoulders. They were heading into enemy territory – Brussels, about thirty-five miles over the Maginot Line – and they were taking the bare minimum with them; bed rolls, plenty of ammunition, and dry c-rations.

 

“Let’s move out then.”

 

The ferry ride across the English Channel was a cold, choppy prologue to a day spent on and off troop trains, the cratered French countryside speeding by blurrily as the men gambled and traded with other Allied soldiers. Dernier chattered away in amicable French to a group of Resistance fighters and Dum Dum won at least five men’s cigarette rations in a series of lucky poker games.

 

Throughout the journey Bucky remained quiet and apart, and the garrulous brunet’s unusual reticence didn’t go unnoticed.

 

“Is he alright?” asked Falsworth, sidling up to Steve after hitting up all the other Brits he could find for a portion of their tea ration.

 

“Bucky?” asked Steve, surprised that anyone but himself had noticed the change in his friend and then immediately feeling foolish; these men had spent months in close captivity with Bucky, they probably knew his mannerisms almost as well as Steve did.

 

“We, uh… at the barracks last night, we had a bit of a, uh, not a _fight_ , just y’know…”

 

“Lover’s tiff?” asked Falsworth with a smile.

 

It was clear that the lieutenant was using the phrase jokingly, building on the running gag that Morita had invented when he began calling Bucky ‘Mrs Rogers’, but it still made Steve’s heart jump guiltily and he had to force the smile to his face as he replied, “Yeah, something like that.”

 

“Well I’m sure he’ll come around,” Falsworth assured him, “He does rather owe you his life when all’s said and done. As do we all.”

 

Steve did manage to smile at that, albeit wryly, “He’s saved my life more’n I can count, I was just repaying the favour,” he sighed, then bit the bullet and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know what they did… where we found him?”

 

Falsworth shook his head, “No more than you do I’m afraid.”

 

Steve looked sad, “I thought not.”

 

“Sergeant Barnes is a very brave man,” commented Falsworth quietly, though there was no chance of Bucky overhearing them from the other side of crowded, clattering train car, “Whatever he went through, he’ll tell you when he’s ready. You can’t force him to discuss something that perhaps he has still not come to terms with yet himself.”

 

“I know,” Steve nodded, “It’s just… I wanna help him. But every time I try to he just gets mad at me and spits that he ain’t a coward.”

 

Falsworth sighed sadly, “Captain… My elder brother fought in the Great War. He was a brave man too, very much like our Sergeant Barnes, always ready with a smile and always putting others before himself. He was captured. To this day I don’t know the circumstances of his captivity but when he was liberated he was by all accounts a changed man. Still, the field hospital certified him physically fit to resume duty so he was returned to the front. Two months later he was court martialled and executed by firing squad for cowardice.”

 

Falsworth resolutely avoided Steve’s eye as he continued, his voice steady yet underscored by deep currents of emotion, “My brother was _not_ a coward, Captain, and Mother still keeps his Meritorious Service Award to prove it. He was however badly hurt by his time in that prison camp, not physically but mentally. Emotionally. If Sergeant Barnes is indeed suffering in a similar manner to my brother it may be fear that keeps him from speaking to you – after all, I gather from his stories of your shared childhood that you two were very close and you relied on him quite heavily at times. Barnes probably feels that to admit his mental anguish despite his physical fitness would be to admit a substantial failure, and that is something he cannot do, not in front of you.”

 

Steve looked troubled and helpless, and Falsworth reached out to pat his shoulder reassuringly, “Give him time Captain, time heals all wounds as they say. He’ll speak when he’s ready.”

 

It was after dark by the time the Howling Commandoes made it to Lille in France, near the border. They set up camp in the town, intending to cross into Belgium the next morning in pursuit of the HYDRA base that Steve knew was located there.

 

Dernier had pre-arranged a base for them with some of his contacts in the country and the tired, dirty men were granted the respite of another night under a stable roof. The house had been abandoned by its owners and was half ruined, but Steve and the men were grateful for the shelter it provided nonetheless; they had all endured much rougher circumstances, and a working stove plus a freshwater well in the garden seemed like luxury indeed.

 

There had once been a bathroom with indoor plumbing but some heavy artillery had taken care of that, and all that remained was a pile of cracked tiles and twisted piping. In the wreckage however was a large shard of mirror which was passed gratefully around by those few of the men who still felt the need to keep themselves clean shaven.

 

By the time the rest had washed up it was near midnight, but it never sat right with Steve to go to sleep unwashed if he could help it. He stripped out of his shirt, filled his helmet with cold water and dumped it over himself as many times as it took to wipe off the dust of travel. The dousing didn’t even raise goosebumps on his arms, where once it would have almost certainly left him stricken with a bad cold. Sighing heavily, he sat down with the mirror and his blunt, army-issue razor and set to work by the light of the full moon.

 

Steve liked his new body. He was aware that it looked good, that he no longer had to feel embarrassed about getting down to his skivvies in the showers with the other fellas, but a lifetime of physical self consciousness ran deep and it hadn’t gone away over night. Even now he subconsciously covered himself when the others were nearby, a hand falling over his no longer concave stomach and protruding ribs when Dum Dum popped his head out into the garden to announce that he and Falsworth would be taking the first watch.

 

What Steve liked better about his new body was what it could _do_. Everything he'd never been able to - running, jumping, climbing, landing a punch instead of just throwing one - and he wasn't just _capable_ of these things either, he was unsurpassable. Within minutes of his transformation he'd outrun cars and out swum a submarine. He’d been shot, blown up, frozen half to death, and yet here he stood with not a scratch on him. So sure, the fancy new bodywork looked nice, but Steve was far more interested in the engine underneath.

 

He knew he looked good and that Bucky agreed. Knew from their first fumble together in the tent that he was sensitive in ways his sickly, skinny frame hadn't been. Knew that it wasn't just his arms and legs and stamina that had grown...

 

The USO girls had flirted tirelessly with him, even the ones who'd shown him their treasured snapshots of their best guys in uniform. Steve's lifelong trouble with speaking to women had gradually abated under the hourly onslaught of fluttering lashes and girlish giggles to the point where he was almost able to give as good as he got, so long as it remained within the realms of harmless platonic flirtation.

 

The Commandoes ribbed him affectionately but mercilessly about his newfound size and strength, calling him Charles Atlas and purposely filling his pack with all their heavy goods just to watch him lift it with ease and walk ten miles before realising something fishy was going on.

 

Try as he might to focus on army drills and HYDRA bases and more noble pursuits, at that moment he was chiefly concerned with what his new body could do for Bucky... Bucky was the only one who'd really known him before, the only one who remembered skinny, scrappy Steve Rogers from the bad part of Brooklyn. Bucky who'd loved him and called him beautiful and kissed every inadequate inch of that too thin body. Bucky who now looked at him sometimes like he was a stranger, but sometimes with hot, hooded eyes. Whose tongue flickered across his lips when his glance caught Steve's, a sinful suggestion that left Steve flustered in a way none of the USO girls had ever managed to.

 

Bucky was smaller than Steve these days, still strong and well muscled like he had been since they were kids, but newly thin after his months in captivity, a decent portion of his bulk wasted away thanks to being immobilized and drugged up to his eyeballs all that time. Sometimes his hands shook and Steve pretended not to notice when his coffee spilled, and sometimes he thrashed about screaming in the night and the other men pretended not to notice while Steve held him and whispered quiet assurances until Bucky was sleeping soundly again.

Steve was tall and strong and for all intents and purposes, bullet proof. Bucky was thin and hurting and waking up in the night with his chest heaving. Sometimes it felt like the world had been tipped upside down, but Falsworth was right, Bucky would talk to Steve when he was good and ready to. They were back together and for now that was all that mattered. They'd figure the rest out somehow.

 

With a sigh Steve scraped the last of the stubble from his cheek and washed his razor clean, heading back inside to rejoin the other men. Dum Dum and Falsworth were on watch as promised and the rest of the Commandoes were crowded together on the floor of what had once been a handsome drawing room, the remnants of plush carpet offering respite from the chill evening air as they snored.

 

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw that Bucky had spread out their bedrolls side by side. In the dark of the room he let himself grin dopily as he stripped and carefully lay down so as not to disturb his best friend. But as soon as Steve was on the floor Bucky’s eyes opened, as if he had been waiting – he _had_ been waiting, Steve realized – and with the smallest apologetic smile and nod of his head the brunet reached out his hand to hold Steve’s beneath the covers.

 

That was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been a very long time in the pipeline… I hope you all enjoy reading and it does justice to all of the amazing positive feedback I got from 'Boys' :) x


End file.
